


Remember Me

by dinkyrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memory Alteration, Pining John, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinkyrose/pseuds/dinkyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes a drastic step to move on with his life and forget about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back, and being the absolute worst judge of whether something is any good or not, I've sat on this for months. The idea comes from the movie 'Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind'.

 

_I can’t see you. I can’t see you anymore and it scares me. Once, all I could see were your eyes staring back into mine. Once you were everything, every atom just you. I thought I would drown, and it’s over and I keep drowning. I can’t breathe, my chest won’t move, the simple reflex in and out stops. There’s a weight there, crushing the air from my lungs and they burn and you’re not there to fill them. I’m awake and I just can’t move, paralysed and awake – fucking terrifying. Muscles twitch as I force the movement. I don’t know how to fix this. Not anymore. When I close my eyes you’re not there. Where are you? Where have you gone?_

 

Three Months Earlier:

 

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Yes’, says Sherlock curtly, and because this patently isn’t enough, he adds, ‘Very sure, most definitely, just do it for god’s sake.’

The needle slides home and he lets out a sigh, wincing only slightly as the plunger depresses and the bright yellow liquid flows into his vein. It stings worse than any injection that he’s ever had before but considering what this is and what it does, he welcomes the pain.

A cotton pad is pressed to his skin as the doctor slides the needle out again.

'Press here,' he instructs and Sherlock does as he’s told, holding the cotton in place with two fingers to stop the blood from welling up through the puncture wound.

The needle is larger than he thought and his stomach swoops in panic, but that could just be the drug.

The doctor turns to face him clipboard in hand, 'It may take a day or two for maximum effectiveness, until then we recommend you avoid the um, subject.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. How very articulate. The advice is wholly unnecessary of course, he already has a room booked at a small boutique hotel on the east coast. His bags are already there waiting and he knows a black sedan will be idling at the kerb outside the clinic doors.

Mycroft has been very thorough even though this time, he doesn’t approve.

'You understand,' the doctor continues, 'The procedure is still in the experimental stage, there is no guarantee the memory sweep will be entirely successful, there may be some residual memories, flashbacks for a while, but the frequency should fade in the coming weeks, until the um, subject no longer produces an emotional response.'

'How long?' Sherlock snaps.

'A week, two at most.'

'And then I’ll…..forget?'

'Certainly,' the doctor smiles, 'It will be like he never existed at all.'

His heart begins to thud at those words, so hard he thinks he can see it through the thin material of the hospital gown. The rush of blood pulses loud in his ears, making it hard to hear the doctor’s next words.

Is this really what he wants, how this ends after all this time?

Yes, he thinks, it’s time to move on, this is the only way forward for both of them.

After thirty minutes the nausea subsides, after an hour he is dressed again.

He drapes the gown carefully over the back of the chair by the bed, looks in the mirror and ruffles his hair, and satisfied, fastens the button on his jacket.

The car waits as expected, and the gentle motion as they exit the city and head off along the coastal roads lulls him into a fitful sleep.

Mycroft rings the minute he arrives, and he fumbles for the phone in his pocket while trying to open the door with a key card.

'And how are we feeling?'

'Absolutely fine,' he says, with the phone clamped under his chin while he struggles. Isn’t there normally someone who helps him with things like this?

'That’s….good,' Mycroft says in his customary drawl. 'But I thought you might like to know, Dr Watson has been in touch and would very much like to see you, I politely informed him you have no wish to remain in contact at this difficult time.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, why does Mycroft insist on being so insufferably cryptic? He has a headache, a small creature has apparently died in his mouth and his hands are trembling inexplicably.

Sherlock does not have the time or the patience for this.

'I just left the damn place four hours ago Mycroft, tell Dr….Whatshisface, or whoever he is I’ll make an appointment at the clinic next week….and what do you mean this difficult time, I’m on holiday Mycroft, nobody died for god’s sake.'

'Ah,' Mycroft pauses, 'That’s not what I….never mind.'

Sherlock can hear his brother breathing deeply on the other end of the line.

He hangs up in annoyance.

 

~*~

 

'Where the hell is he and what has he done?'

John stands in the kitchen of 221B, hands gripping the back of a kitchen chair so hard his knuckles are white.

Mycroft sits in Sherlock’s chair legs crossed at the knee, the tip of his umbrella digs into the bare wooden floorboards.

John’s pulse kicks at the look on Mycroft’s face, confusion and sadness and regret all combined.

'I’m sorry John,' Mycroft says, and the words ring true for once as he pushes himself to his feet, crosses the room and hands John an embossed white card.

 

Lacuna Inc.

Neuro-Cleanse Specialists.

 

'He thinks it will be better for both of you this way…like you never met at all.'

'He….He…. _Erased_ me?'

John drops the card like it burns, closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on just breathing, in and out.

'Where?'

He gets the words out finally, and Mycroft to his credit doesn’t attempt to argue with him.

'John?' Mycroft calls as John bolts for the door, phone number and address of the hotel in hand, 'Perhaps you should tell him this time?'


	2. Chapter 2

The cab is almost to Sherlock’s hotel before John even thinks about what he’s going to say, to do.

 Find him first, and then what? Pray he even knows who John is anymore?

 John has spent the last half hour researching the various treatments that Lacuna Inc offer. From what he can gather, Sherlock has opted for the memory cleanse No2 option : specific traumatic event(s) and/or individual(s). Not the horrors of torture in Serbia, the trauma of the fall and their two year separation, but him, John Watson, Sherlock’s best, and at one time, only friend.

 He thought they’d withstand anything so long as they were together, a unit. But that’s the point now, isn’t it. They aren’t together anymore and now Sherlock wants to make it so they never have been. What other memories will this procedure take - all of them? Every time they were together, all the things they did, the crimes they solved, quiet times alone in the flat, two lives that fit together almost seamlessly, or had done once?

 Or will John simply disappear like a ghost, leave the memory intact with him no longer part of it, a hazy recollection that someone else was there too, time warping and reshaping around a brand new reality.

Sherlock never had been very good with feelings, though, had he. The last time he’d been in such dire emotional straits resulted in his discovery in a crack den for fucks sake. John hates himself a little for wishing that was all it was. A drug addiction he can cope with, it’s what he’s trained to cope with. You can’t be an urban GP and not see it every single day of the week.

 For the first time in four years a spasm of pain lances through John’s leg and he grips the leather seat of the cab in anguish. He wills himself to ignore it.

Taking out his phone he thumbs through the contacts until he reaches Sherlock’s number. God knows why he hasn’t done this sooner. But a quick scan through the call history reminds him, Sherlock has deliberately ignored all of John’s calls for the past three weeks and barely responds to his texts. The last was six days ago. ( _Dinner at 8pm – please come JW  -  Busy, difficult case SH_ ). Not a ‘sorry’, not an ‘another time maybe’, a very definite brush-off, John knew the difference, he wasn’t stupid. And it hurt, ridiculously, a heavy empty feeling had settled in his chest that night that even three beers and a bottle of wine couldn’t cut through. Later, in bed with Mary, the weight of the lie crushing him, carving out a hole in his chest and filling it with molten lead, he knew this wasn’t what he wanted and never had been. It was Sherlock, it always had been, right from that very first moment.

On cue his vibrates, Mary.  _Don’t forget Mike and Claire coming for dinner x_

Damn it. _Sorry, something came up, see you tomorrow x_

_Tomorrow?  WTF John, it’s him again isn’t it?_

His fingers hover over the keys as he thinks: The web of lies around this whole stupid mess, Mary, Sherlock, his sham of a marriage, losing his best friend. No, John thinks, she doesn’t get to make him feel guilty about this, not this time, not when she’s the reason John almost lost him for a second time. Hell the fact that they’re still married isn’t good enough for her – Sherlock has to destroy his own mind because he can’t stand to remember the time when it was just them.

_The two of us against the rest of the world_.

He types out his answer. _Sherlock needs me._

His fingers hover over the ‘x’ for a second. He decides against it, tonight it feels like a lie, presses send.

In the end, he decides against sending a message to Sherlock, doesn’t want the bastard running out on him before he gets there. And he would too. He’d magic a cab from the ether like he normally does and take off without a single word. No, best just take him by surprise.

The hotel is small, quiet, and not what John expects for a man wedded to designer shirts and bespoke tailored suits. The driver has to ask in the end, the sat nav having directed him down a narrow lane that ends in a fence with an old fashioned stile and some rather scary looking Aberdeen Angus cows. It reminds him of the Cross Keys, with its pretty thatched roof and white-washed walls. Inside too, a low ceilinged room divided into two distinct areas, a bar with small tables, booths and stools, leading through to a dining area with larger wooden tables and an inglenook fireplace. If Sherlock is trying to forget, this is hardly the most logical place to do it in.

_Friends? I don’t have friends._

Yes you do.

John steadies himself for a moment in the doorway, takes a deep calming breath and approaches the bar.

“Sorry, erm, I’m looking for a friend of mine, he’s a guest here, he just arrived this afternoon….Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Give us a sec love.” The woman behind the bar, the owner he assumes, pulls a test pint from the pump marked real ale, frowns at the murky, foaming mess in the glass and tips it out with a sigh.

“Don’t suppose you know how to change a barrel love?” John shakes his head in apology. “Never mind”. She thumbs through a ledger by the old-fashioned till, running her finger down the entries for that day. “Now,” she says, pausing part way down the page, “It says here, no visitors, no phone calls – messages only. Sorry love, was he expecting you?”

“No,” John sighs, “No he wasn’t….and I don’t suppose you have a room for the night?”

The woman shakes her head. “Full up I’m afraid.” John feels his face crumple. All this sodding way and he won’t even get to speak to the idiot. “But the dinner service starts in twenty minutes, there’s a few tables spare, if you’re not in a hurry to get back, that is?” She smiles conspiratorially.

It’s a long shot. Sherlock’s eating habits are notoriously sporadic and he might not even make an appearance. But it’s the best John can do for now, so he books for a seven o’clock table, buys a pint and some crisps, and takes a seat by the window in the bar area to wait.

By seven thirty he’s seated in the dining room, feeling conspicuous and alone, sipping on a double whiskey while he waits for his order to arrive. All thoughts of food fade however, when an achingly familiar figure takes a seat on the opposite side of the room. The tables for two run along both walls, the tables for four or more in clusters in the centre , and with the dining room almost at capacity, it would be easy to miss him all together. He looks….different, somehow, no jacket, the sleeves of his soft blue shirt turned up to the elbows. He smiles at the waitress, the low rumble of his voice as he places his order resonates in John’s chest all the same. John’s eyes barely leave him as their food arrives and they begin to eat, Sherlock clearing his plate with enthusiasm, pouring glass after glass from the wine on his table. He orders coffee too, content to sit alone and just be, thumbing absently through his phone, and rising once to retrieve a newspaper from a stand by the Inglenook. He looks relaxed, in a way that John has only ever witnessed in 221b on the lazy days after a case with nothing to do and nowhere in particular to be.

 He should be happy, John thinks. When he’d come here half-expecting …..god, he doesn’t know what he’d expected in reality. I certainly hadn’t been this. Maybe Sherlock didn’t need him, or even the memory of him. John was wrong. Mycroft was wrong. Sherlock had done the right thing.

John walks back through to the bar to wait for his cab back to London.

“You talk to your young man?” the barmaid asks as he pulls his coat on.

“Er, no, I think I’ll just leave it thanks.”

“Any message love?” she smiles.

“No, no message” John answers, pushing through the outer door and walking out into a damp, drizzly night.

 

OoO

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not entirely sure if this is the best or the worst damn idea of his life, but if Sherlock hates the memory of John Watson so much, perhaps there's still time to overwrite it somehow, with something different, something new.

“Excuse me, you don’t happen to have a light do you?”

John jolts out of his silent contemplation, head snapping round to the figure by the door. Sherlock steps outside, shivering slightly as the chill of the evening breeze hits him. “Filthy habit, I know,” he says apologetically. “Never could manage to stop.”

“I know.” John means to say before he stops himself. He doesn’t understand what the rules are now if there are any, if it will cause Sherlock harm if John makes himself known. He fingers the card in his pocket absently, tracing round the gilded edge, wishing he’d researched this place more thoroughly before he came here instead of climbing hot-headed into the first available cab.

 But then he would have missed this, whatever ‘this’ is.

 Sherlock frowns for a second, rummaging in his trouser pockets and pulling out a battered box of safety matches. John huffs a little at the irony. “Never mind,” Sherlock smiles warmly, “Although I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have these, but I can’t quite recall why. Arson do you think?” He winks, so fast John doubts the evidence of his own eyes, strikes one against the side of the box and cups his hand around the cigarette in his lips. The tip glows red and he shakes the match to extinguish it. Smoke curls into the night, he slips the spent match into the box, and slips the box back into his pocket. The hand stays there, fingers flexing against his wool-clad thigh and John can’t tear his eyes away.

He looks so damn beautiful. The mist-like rain sits like glitter in his wayward curls, catching the light that streams from the large leaded windows of the dining room. John can barely breathe. No spark of recognition in those ethereal eyes, but no corresponding guarded suspicion either. This is a Sherlock he’s never seen before, a Sherlock that might have been.  Without the hurt and the lies and the gulf that had grown between them in recent months. All easy grace and sensual charm; it’s frankly unnerving. And horribly seductive. John tries not to think too much about what that means for both of them.

“You staying?” says Sherlock, taking another drag and nodding his head back towards the building. He leans back casually against the outside wall. “Only got here this afternoon myself, but it seems rather nice don’t you think?”

John feels frozen, can’t think what to say, caught between the wildly inappropriate thoughts that have chosen this moment to swirl around his head and not coming off like some ignorant prick. He nods in the affirmative, a sharp bark to clear his throat, praying his voice won’t betray him. “Er, yeah…came down to see a friend of mine, but I think he forgot me or something.”

Sherlock smiles. “Can’t imagine why.” His eyes are appraising. “Was it business or pleasure – this little visit?”

“What?”

“God, sorry, I’m an idiot. That was a little presumptuous of me. Look, what I meant to say, was if you’re at a loose end, I thought maybe we could have a drink….just while you wait for your….friend, no pressure or anything, seems a shame to come all this way for nothing.”

Jesus Christ, thinks John. He’s flirting. Sherlock bloody Holmes is bloody flirting with me. And apologising for being a nosy dick. Old Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock would never say sorry, because he works under the automatic arrogant and entitled public school-boy assumption that he is never under any circumstances ever in the wrong in the first place. Every question serves a purpose no matter how intrusive. Never mind a memory cleanse, he’s had a full personality transplant. But the evidence is irrefutable now, Sherlock hasn’t the slightest idea who John is, he’s just essentially propositioned a stranger  (he thinks) while having a fag outside a hotel bar. It’s ridiculous and surreal.

 Unless this is some sort of test, a joke.

Okay, he’ll play along, the only way to see if this is real or fake is to see just how far Sherlock is willing to go. John’s not entirely sure if this is best or the worst damn idea of his life, but if Sherlock hates the memory of John Watson so much, perhaps there’s still time to overwrite it somehow, with something different, something new. And it’s a damn big line to cross. John knows this, and still he can’t, he won’t walk away.

“Yeah, why not?” John answers, though in reality, which John will ignore for now, there are a million and one reasons why this could go spectacularly wrong . He steps a little closer, invading Sherlock’s body space a little more, hoping the man can’t tell how hard his heart is thumping, how much his palms are sweating, the urge to wipe them down his leg overwhelming.

This is quite possibly the most terrifying thing he’s ever done in five years of knowing this ridiculous man and that really is saying something.

Sherlock parts his legs unconsciously.  John pitches his voice low and steady. “It was business by the way,” he adds, head cocked to one side.  “But I was hoping it might have been pleasure one day. You know how these things are, I’m sure.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums in agreement, “Yes - UST in the workplace, nothing worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John smiles, “Sometimes that’s half the fun.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock takes a final drag, stubs the cigarette out on the side of a plant pot. “Sherlock,” he says with warm, genuine smile. He holds out a hand for John to shake.

“John,” he answers, even though it feels beyond ridiculous, when they’ve lived together for years, worked, eaten and even platonically shared the same bed on occasion. Not anymore.

 A large warm palm wraps around his smaller hand Sherlock squeezing for a beat too long.

“John.” The most common first name in the western hemisphere (probably) and Sherlock rolls it around in his mouth as if he’s never even heard it before. Does it work like that too? Not just this John, but all John’s erased? But then he smiles, seems pleased, pushes up from the wall and says, “Shall we?” He gestures back towards the warm, inviting sanctuary of the hotel bar and the muted hum of voices, the clink of glasses the comforting smells of good food and alcohol.

Half-hearted drizzle turns to full-bodied fat soaking drops that bounce off the tarmac surface and they both start to laugh. “Guess that decides it then.” Sherlock steps back inside as John holds the door. By the time it swings shut again, Sherlock is already at the bar placing an order for a bottle of red and two glasses. His phone buzzes accusingly and he fishes it out of his pocket, half expecting it to be Mary with some sanctimonious rant about duty and commitment, his responsibilities as a husband and father. As if she isn’t responsible in the first place for ripping his life to shreds and trampling it underfoot as if it meant nothing.

It’s not Mary. Not Mycroft either. John came he with his blessing, if he’d had reservations Mycroft never would have told him where Sherlock had gone.

An unknown number.

_Don’t do anything rash Dr Watson_

_Who is this?_

_A friend._

_I seriously doubt that. What do you want?_

_There’s nothing you can do John. The process has already begun._

_What process?_ His hands shake as he types.

_Irreversible erasure._

John is still staring at the screen when Sherlock strides back over and touches him on the arm. “Bad news? Friend unavoidably detained for the night?”

“Um, yeah, something like that,” John mutters. He thumbs the screen, typing quickly and biting his lip in concentration while Sherlock looks at him quizzically, but uncharacteristically says nothing. _Why feel the need to warn me then?_

It’s a challenge. But the phone stays ominously silent as he slips into the corner booth beside Sherlock. John can’t tell if that’s a good sign. If the messages are from Lacuna Inc, and if this process is as permanent as they claim it is then why be concerned he’s here?

“So,” Sherlock smiles, “if that’s business taken care of, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”

He takes a gulp of wine to quell the ache in his chest at those words. It warms his throat and he meets Sherlock’s curious gaze as the germ of a plan takes root. He’ll fight this, with everything he has.

“I’ve got a better idea," he says, "why don’t you tell me what you see?”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
